


Argent

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, OT3, Other, SRPB Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-15
Updated: 2014-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 00:44:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1962528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is trying to keep it a secret, but we all know how well that's likely to work. The prompt was 'silver'. </p><p>A fic written for the Sherlock Rare Pair Bingo over on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Argent

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I don't make any money from this. I most certainly don't mean ANY disrespect. 
> 
> Beta read by LonghornLetters, who is amazing.

Sherlock Holmes was a dandy. Nobody doubted it. But he didn’t take pride in his clothing, for all his absurd sock budget and custom made shoes. Even in his designer suits he would jump into skips or clamber up fire escapes with little thought to dirt or damage. If the case required it, he would trade out silks and hand tailoring for sagging track pants and faded hoodies without a second thought. No, Sherlock Holmes didn’t take particular pride in his attire. However, it didn’t take long for Greg or John to notice that the first thing he did upon climbing out of a skip was to fluff his hair. Hoods were worn with a precise amount of curl exposure, if they were pulled up at all. Hats were anathema. Sherlock may not have been proud of his clothes, but he certainly had an emotional investment in his hair. Of course he denied it. 

“I am not _proud_ of my hair. I had no hand in determining its color or texture. If people find it appealing, that is simply an accident of genetics.”

John had smiled down at his fingers, tangled in the inky curls. “Maybe so. But it is appealing, and you know it. So dark and shiny.” 

“And soft, too,” Greg had added from his spot on the opposite end of the sofa. “And don’t say that’s just genetics. I did the shopping, remember. I’ve drunk wine that costs less than your shampoo.”

Sherlock had thumped his heel into Greg’s thigh in reproach. “Other brands give me a rash. Having a sensitive scalp isn’t the same as being vain.”

“No. No, it’s not. But then there’s the fluffing, and the ruffling, and the checking up in whatever reflective surface is handy.” Just last week they’d caught him using a manky kerb-side puddle as a mirror, verifying that a particularly vigorous bout of fisticuffs hadn’t left him looking more than artfully disheveled. 

The subject was dropped when Sherlock declared them ‘dull’ and flounced into the kitchen. John and Greg might have smirked a bit when they caught him zhuzhing his locks, but they didn’t say anything. The man was a peacock; this wasn’t exactly news. 

They didn’t mention it again until one morning several weeks later when Sherlock came out of the bathroom with an indignant frown. His hair had been straightened and slicked back with borrowed product, following the line of his skull and making his cheekbones appear even more prominent. 

“That’s a new look.” John stepped over, took Sherlock’s chin in his fingers and began turning his head, studying the style from various angles. “I suppose it’s for a case? It suits you, anyway.”

“Do I actually have any styling creme left?” Greg asked.

Sherlock nodded, promised to purchase a new jar later. Everyone was in a hurry; headed off to work, and Sherlock’s new style was already replaced with worries about patients and cases and whether the rain would hold off . Attractive though it was, he didn’t wear it that way for long. Sherlock hadn’t been exaggerating the sensitivity of his scalp, and treating the resultant hives had him monopolizing the bathroom twice a day even after they’d mostly cleared up. Greg and John might have wondered, but neither really felt like bringing it up and listening to his carryings on. They adjusted their own schedules, and left him to it. Whatever ‘it’ was. 

It all became clear one afternoon when Greg succumbed to a blistering headache and left work early. Climbing the stairs, he at first thought Sherlock was out and gave brief thanks for the chance to take some pills and crawl into a dark, quiet bedroom. He carefully pulled the door shut behind him, collected a glass from the kitchen, and stumbled to the bathroom only to find the door locked. He rattled the handle, thinking it had stuck, then stopped when he heard a muffled curse and the rattle of something being dropped in the sink. 

“Sherlock? Everything okay?” Greg sagged against the closed door. Please, let everything be okay. All he really wanted was a glass of water and some painkillers. He was in no shape for a Sherlock style crisis.

“I’m...yes, yes, everything is...I’m fine, fine.” Sherlock sounded furtive, and Greg could hear him opening and closing the medicine chest over the sink. “I’ll be out...just a moment...what are you doing home?”

Sherlock finally swung the door out from beneath Greg’s shoulder, sending him careening into Sherlock’s arms. He winced, then held up the glass. “Headache. Wanted water, and tablets. Sorry, sorry…” He pulled away from the younger man, reached for the mirrored cabinet. Sherlock batted his hand away. 

“I’ll get it. You should be in bed. Go on through, I’ll bring you the pills.” He reached abruptly for Greg’s glass, sending it spinning to the floor. Sherlock lunged to pick it up and Greg, intent on getting relief, opened the cabinet. As the door swung open, a small tube fell from the shelf and clattered into the sink. Greg scooped up it, noticing for the first time that something dark had been smudged about on the ivory porcelain. 

_**Grey Disappear**_ , read the side of the tube. Greg twisted the cap, and pulled out a mascara wand. Bemusedly he compared the brush to the smudges in the sink, found that they matched. Then he turned and held it up to Sherlock’s hair. “Hmmm. Good match. Did they help you with that at the store?” 

Sherlock snatched it away from him, viciously stabbing the wand back into the tube and screwing it shut. “Don’t be ridiculous. I ordered it online. You look awful. Weren’t you going to take a nap?” He all but threw the paracetamol at Greg and stormed out of the bathroom. Greg sighed, sent a warning and explanatory text to John, and took himself to bed. 

When he woke up, blessedly free of pain and starving, John and Sherlock were discussing the situation. Or rather, Sherlock was ignoring John’s attempts to discuss the situation.

“It’s not as if it’s shameful. I mean, come on. Greg’s had grey hair for as long as I’ve known him. Mine started turning practically the day I met you.” 

“Boring, John.” 

“Oh for God’s...look, Sherlock. It doesn’t change anything. It’s just _hair_. You’re still gorgeous, you’re still you. I mean, I don’t care if you want to cover it up, that’s fine too. But it doesn’t change how I feel about you.” 

“Yes, obviously. Boring.” 

Greg padded into the kitchen, began foraging in the fridge. “He’s right, you know. Anyway, I think you’d look very distinguished with grey hair.”

“Shut up. Both of you, just SHUT UP. My hair. Is. Not. GREY. Mycroft’s is grey, what he has left of it.” Sherlock glared at them, outraged and betrayed. A glint at his temple caught Greg’s eye. He walked over, gently tugged the offending strands. 

“You’re right. More white or silver than grey, really.” 

“Yours is silver,” Sherlock pouted. “Everyone says so. And John’s is pewter, or maybe gunmetal, where it’s turning. Not just commonplace grey.” 

John huffed a laugh, raised his tea in salute. “Ta for that, love.”

Greg considered, even as he laughed inwardly. Of course Sherlock would find the word grey ordinary. Even _silver_ had become common in recent years. And Sherlock was anything but ordinary. Would never be common. But Greg recalled a word, one that Dimmock had written on his crossword in pen, damn the pretentious dick. 

“Argentate.” He’d made sure to look up the pronunciation, leery of being made to look a fool in front of his team if anyone asked. “It means-”

“I know full well what it means.” Sherlock’s voice was scathing, but there was a considering look in his eyes. “From the latin for silver-plated, used in botany to describe a silvery-white coloration. Also, in chemistry, the salts of argentic acid.” His lips moved, tasting and testing the word. His smile, when it came, was radiant and smug. “Yes, I like that. John, my hair is not grey. If you must put this in the blog, you may use the word _argentate_.” 

“Hmm. Does that mean you’re giving up the dye? Stuff’s not good for your scalp, even just the paint-on kind. I’ll call it argentate if it means you don’t have to be on diphenhydramine again.” 

Greg laughed at Sherlock’s petulant sigh. “He’s right, and you know it. It’s just not worth it. No more hiding it with that slicked back look, either. It was gorgeous, but this is touchable.” He demonstrated by running his hands through the curls, feathering them back and fluffing them forward. Sherlock leaned into the touch, pouted when Greg drew his hands away and looked expectantly at him.

“Yes, fine, that is a fair trade. No more dye, but my hair is not to be referred to as silver, or grey, or salt-and-pepper. No more products and difficult to maintain styles in exchange for...that.” Sherlock’s hands rose almost of their own volition, fluffing his curls back into their preferred disarray. Greg and John laughed at him, and after a time he joined in somewhat sheepishly, all three silvering heads shaking with their shared mirth.


End file.
